Oh Sun it is so nice to see you once more, and also to welcome your twin, warmth; I am so happy to make your acquaintance again. For I can no longer kid myself that we are in the last few days of summer. There is no hiding behind whichever theory one chooses to believe, for whether we follow the meteorological calendar or the astrological one, either way it is now autumn and the signs of the new season are all around, in the garden, on the streets and at the market.
Continue reading “French Markets, Autumn and Old Fashioned Cookery”
Some seventeen years ago, when we were starting out on the journey of schools with our children, meeting mothers and parents at the school gates for the first time and starting a completely new phase in our lives, I remember one mother who I had quite recently met bringing her daughter over to spend an afternoon with Izzi. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the girls played in the garden for hours. When the girl’s mother came to collect her in the evening she gave us a huge bowl of raspberries; they were from her garden and she had just picked them and I remember thinking, how I would love to be able to do that some day. And I still think of that moment quite often – it’s what has inspired me to always grow an excess amount of everything. 
“How long have we got?”
I wanted to make a feast. I had an insane urge to cook and create and make everything homely and perfect. Why? Probably because I’ve been away more than I’ve been home this past month, and apart from the Auvergne there haven’t been breaks or holidays, long or short. It’s just been a long litany of hectic days away, tennis, business, children, and anything else you can think of. I just haven’t been home. So often have I left the house at 6.00am or 7.00am and returned around 9.00pm. Roddy has held the fort quite perfectly, obviously, usually accompanied by at least one or more of our children. But I’ve been on the road with the others; I have driven more kilometres than I dare to count and let’s just say I am a dab hand at filling up with diesel, again and again and again! 
Not really wanting to leave Vichy, but knowing we must, we clambered into the car and headed over the bridge once more. We were saying goodbye to chic city life and trading it for an altogether more rugged experience involving hiking shoes and plenty of stamina; we were heading to the French volcanoes. 
Last week, we headed east, five hours inland, away from the beach and our gentle undulating coastline, to the rugged landscape of the Auvergne-Rhone Alpes, a dramatic region of thick forests, mountains, dormant and extinct volcanoes. Our initial destination was the genteel spa town of Vichy. 
Our French Oasis 